Tess
The great hall is a cavern of noise and glittering light. A hundred unfamiliar faces turn to watch me as I walk to the high table on Eryk’s arm. My hand rests on his sleeve, a featherlight touch. My heart hammers a frantic rhythm against my ribs, a war drum only I can hear.
I feel like an imposter in a stolen skin. The silk dress is a cage, the jewels around my neck a collar. Every eye in this room is a judge, and two sets of them are my jailers.
Marcellus stands near the head table, his smile thin and tight. He catches my eye and gives a nearly imperceptible nod, a silent command. Perform. His gaze is a physical weight, a reminder of the plague, of Elara’s cough, of the lives hanging on my every clumsy, convincing step.
Then there are Eryk’s eyes. He hasn’t looked at me, not directly, but I feel his attention. It’s a cold, focused intensity, like a wolf watching a rabbit, trying to decide if it’s truly injured or just playing a trick.
He knows something is wrong. I saw it in his face yesterday. He is hunting for the truth tonight.
I take my seat beside him, my movements deliberately hesitant. I keep my eyes lowered, my posture slumped, a perfect picture of a timid princess overwhelmed by the grandeur of it all.
“A toast!” a booming voice declares. An Alpha from a visiting pack rises to his feet. He is a bear of a man, with a thick red beard and an arrogant smirk. “To the new alliance! And to Alpha Eryk’s… delicate bride.”
He raises his goblet to me, his eyes full of mockery. Laughter ripples through his corner of the hall. He’s testing Eryk, using me as the prod.
I force a blush to my cheeks, looking down into my lap as if I might die from the attention. Beside me, I feel Eryk go utterly still. The air around him drops ten degrees.
“Thank you for your welcome, Alpha Vorlag,” Eryk says, his voice a low growl that cuts through the noise. “I am certain the Princess appreciates your… concern.”
Vorlag just laughs, a loud, obnoxious sound. “Of course! One must be careful with such fragile things. They break so easily.”
The feast drags on. I eat little, pushing food around my plate with a silver fork that feels alien in my hand. I can feel Vorlag’s eyes on me all night. He is looking for an opportunity, a way to chip at Eryk’s cold authority.
His chance comes when the dancing begins. I remain seated, of course. Marcellus’s instructions were clear. I am too frail, too shy for such exertions.
Vorlag makes his way toward the high table, weaving through the crowd with a swagger that clears a path before him. He stops in front of me, his shadow falling over me like a shroud.
“Surely the princess can spare one dance for a humble guest?” he asks, his voice dripping with false courtesy. It is a direct challenge.
“The princess is unwell,” Eryk answers before I can even open my mouth. His tone leaves no room for argument.
But Vorlag is determined. “Nonsense. A little air will do her good.”
He reaches for me. His hand is about to touch my arm. This is not part of the plan.
“I… I should like some water,” I stammer, rising to my feet. It’s an excuse, a way to move away from him, to deescalate.
I take a step away from the table. And just as Marcellus planned, I am clumsy. Pathetic. Weak.
As I pass Vorlag, he deliberately shifts his weight, bumping his shoulder hard into mine. The impact is jarring. It is meant to send me sprawling, to cause a scene, to make me cry and humiliate Eryk’s choice of a mate.
My body wants to brace. To absorb the blow and stand my ground. Every instinct screams to fight back.
I ignore them.
I let his momentum carry me. I cry out, a small, pitiful sound. My arms fly out, my body twists, a perfect picture of graceless panic. It looks like a fall.
But it is not a fall. It is a takedown.
As I stumble, my right leg, hidden beneath the flowing silk of my gown, sweeps out. It is not a wild, flailing limb. It is a precise, targeted hook. My slipper catches his ankle perfectly.
He is big, arrogant, and off balance. He never sees it coming.
I use his own weight against him. My 'accidental' stumble becomes the pivot point for his spectacular downfall. He roars in surprise as his feet go out from under him. He windmills his arms, a desperate, comical display.
I continue my own fall, collapsing into a heap of silk on the stone floor, away from the carnage.
Alpha Vorlag crashes face first into the dessert table.
There is a sound of splintering wood, shattering porcelain, and the wet squelch of a seven tiered cake. Cream and berries explode across the table. For a moment, the entire hall is frozen in stunned silence.
Then, someone giggles. Another person snorts. Soon, the entire court erupts in laughter.
Vorlag lies there, sputtering, covered in frosting and candied violets.
I immediately burst into tears. Loud, racking sobs. It’s a masterful performance. “Oh! Oh, my goodness!” I wail, pushing myself up. “Alpha Vorlag! Are you alright? I am so terribly, terribly sorry! I tripped! I am just so clumsy!”
I look horrified. Mortified. The perfect fragile damsel who caused a hilarious, embarrassing accident.
Several guards rush forward to help the furious, dripping Alpha to his feet. He glares at me with pure murder in his eyes, but what can he say? He was felled by a clumsy girl’s stumble.
Through my fake tears, I risk a glance at the high table. Marcellus looks relieved, even a little impressed by my commitment to the role.
Then I look at Eryk.
He is not laughing. He is not angry. He is not looking at Vorlag. He is looking directly at me. He saw the whole thing. And he is not fooled.
His icy eyes hold mine. And for the first time since I arrived in this frozen wasteland, a slow, dangerous smile touches his lips. It is not a kind smile. It is the smile of a predator that has finally, definitively, confirmed the nature of its prey.
He knows. He knows it was not an accident.
